


bacchanalia

by Amber



Series: Create Something Every Day! (October 2018) [11]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Gaping, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Bathing/Washing, Bondage, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disassociation, Do Not Archive, Gang Rape, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual, October Prompt Challenge, Orgy, Other, Overstimulation, Rape, Ritual Sex, Sex Swing, Size Kink, Suspension, Tentacle Rape, Unrequited Peter Lukas/Martin Blackwood, Virgin Sacrifice, Whump, seriously there is so much bad in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 20:37:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16415531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Prompt 12: Unicorn.





	bacchanalia

**Author's Note:**

> I was mad about censorship discourse so I went outside my own comfort zone and wrote explicit monsterfuck rape fic.
> 
> I tried to tag comprehensively but if I missed one, or if you'd like to ask about specific content you DNW, reach out in the comments or on tumblr.

"You're something of a unicorn, aren't you Martin," says Peter Lukas, standing over Martin as he's trying to focus on research for a statement he's recording.

"Am I?" he says, and it's just sort of a polite murmur of a response, because it seems nonsensical and potentially insulting, and he really just wants Peter to go away and let him get on with work, but he's too British to actually say any of that.

"You're nearly thirty," says Peter. "Next week, according to your employee file. Happy Birthday. You should take the day off."

Martin does pay attention at that. Elias has never given days off so freely. "Yeah?" It would be nice, he thinks. His birthday is going to be on a Friday; he could make a long weekend of it and travel up north to Manchester to visit his mum. She's usually almost nice to him on his birthdays.

"Yes, that decides it," says Peter, as though Martin just said all those things out loud. "Take your birthday off. Put the paperwork in and I'll approve it."

"Thanks," says Martin, pleased, and sort of surprised. It's enough to make him bold: "Look, I love a natter as much as the next man, and I do appreciate the um, birthday gift? But I've got a lot to be getting on with, um, this afternoon, so..."

"So you'd like me to sod off," says Peter cheerfully. "Oh, of course. Less surveillance, less murder. I do remember, you know."

Martin remembers too, the disconcerting conversation he'd had before he'd ever known Peter would be his actual boss. "Yeah," he says. "Um, yes. Thanks."

"Oh, it's no problem at all," says Peter, and his smile should seem perfectly personable, but something about it leaves Martin shivering in its wake as Peter turns away.

-

Peter very nearly leaves him alone entirely after that, until the end of Thursday, right before his day off, he catches Martin as he's heading out of the Archives to the Institute's foyer.

"There you are!" he says. "Kept trying to catch you to wish you a happy birthday, for tomorrow, but our schedules mustn't have lined up." He smiles, though his eyes are hollow. Martin manages to find it in him to smile back.

"Been a busy day, I guess," he hedges. "Anyway—"

Peter takes him lightly by the elbow. "Listen. I know you live by yourself, maybe don't have many friends — don't worry, that's not in your file, I've just got a nose for these things." For loneliness. Martin is aware of that much at least, even if he doesn't like the reminder. "Anyway, I had Rosie pick something up for you — stay right there."

Martin does, not really sure what he's done to deserve Peter being so nice to him. Peter ducks into his office, returns with a small cake box. Opens it with a flourish. Inside is a tiny, perfectly crafted little cake. "Not really enough to share, which is why I didn't just give it to you at lunch, but I'm sure that won't be a problem for you." 

Martin pretends that isn't an insult. Maybe to a Lukas it isn't. "Thanks," he says, looking at the little cake. It's got a layer of shiny tinted glaze over an intricate sandwich of jam and coloured sponges and cream, and the little sugar flower decorations seem hand crafted. For just a single serve it must have cost a fair few quid. Martin, who has spent his whole life strapped for cash, thinks it might be the nicest cake he's ever seen. A part of him wants to keep it forever, but at the same time, he can't wait to get home and eat it. "Seriously, thank you."

Peter claps him on the shoulder. "Have a good weekend, all right, Martin?"

-

When Martin wakes up, he doesn't know where he is.

One too many drinks, is his first thought. But no, as hazy memories begin to filter back, he hadn't gone for drinks, had he? He'd had an early morning coach to Manchester planned, so he'd decided on a quiet night in and an early bed. His only extravagance had been the marvelous delicate little cake he'd indulged in for dessert.

The cake that Peter Lukas gave him.

No. Surely not. Rosie had picked it up from one of the fancy Chelsea bakeries that lined the streets near the Institute. And his boss wouldn't have _drugged_ him, what would be the point? No, this must be something else, maybe something supernatural — maybe Prentiss wasn't really dead, or she'd passed on his address all that time ago, and now something had finally come round because he hadn't bothered to pack up and move— 

"He's awake," says someone. A man, deep-voiced, something elegant to it, well-bred. "And panicking. Lucretia — dose him."

A door opens, and light illuminates the sparse little room. Martin's in bed — with a flush of embarrassment he realizes he's naked, tries to cover himself as a woman enters the room, but his hands won't respond, even though they're not tied. He can only see her silhouette but she must be able to see everything. He manages to flop his sluggish body around a little with a vast effort, but that just makes her laugh softly.

"Shh, it's all right." There's a quilt at the end of the bed and she pulls it up to give him some modesty. "You're not in any danger. Just a bit numb, but that'll wear off soon enough."

"Where am I," Martin asks tremulously. Really he should shout, try and fight her, scream for help, but even though he's scared he can't quite force himself to be rude.

"You're at Moorland House," she says, "In Kent."

"Kent!" Martin echoes.

"Oh I know," she says sympathetically, "Bit far from home, aren't we, hen? Don't worry, we'll have you back to London safe and sound soon enough. Not a good idea for you Eye folk to miss too much work."

Martin feels his breath catch. So this was supernatural. And — he struggles to remember if he knew of Moorland House, certain it had been in a statement connected to the Lukases. Was this why Peter had so generously given him a day off? No-one would even be looking for him, they'd all assume he'd headed off to visit his mum...

Martin whimpers despite himself. "What do you want," he demands hotly. "What do you want from me? I don't belong to you, I belong to Beholding, I—"

Suddenly she takes one of his soft, bare nipples between her lawyered nails and pinches it sharply, enough that he squeals into silence. "Hush now, we know," she tells him. "We're going to give your master a bit of a show before we give you back, and in return you're going to give us something precious. Something we need."

Martin swallows heavily. "Please don't hurt me."

"No, no," she says, brushing his hair off his forehead where fearsweat has stuck it, the gesture soothing despite himself. "Don't worry, you'll like it."

And then she slides the needle into his arm and presses down the plunger.

-

Unlike whatever had been in the cake, which is starting to wear off, this drug doesn't knock Martin out. In fact, at first it seems to do nothing. "You just rest there," his terrible nurse had told him sweetly, patted his thigh over the coverlet and left the room, leaving him in the dark. So he lies on the bed, alert, terrified, not at all restful, willing his body to remember how to move.

Control of his limbs comes back slowly. Martin flails his legs in jerky motions, tangling them in the coverlet. He lifts a hand only to have it fall numbly down and punch himself in the chest. But with them come new sensations: suddenly he's very aware of his skin, of the places it's resting against the bedsheets. His mood slowly lifts into euphoria, even as he starts to realize how lovely the texture of his hair is, turns his head so he can brush it against his face. He smiles to himself, and that makes him aware of his lips, the places they're a little chapped and the place that turns to silken softness. Runs his tongue over them, rubs them together, the sensitive nerves sparkling. 

A part of him is aware that this is the drug kicking in. That he should be scared, should be trying to escape. But instead when he finally manages to get his hand moving he rubs it against the sheets, feeling each individual thread across the back of it. He kicks off the coverlets and rubs the arch of his foot along his own calf, enjoying the prickling texture of his leg's hair. 

The sensation feels most concentrated in his groin; as his dick starts to tingle with interest he is very aware of where his skin is touching his own skin, even of the still air of the room. It's like he can feel a molecular vibration enveloping him, and there's a little noise with his next breath, choked in the back of his throat.

It's like being tickled, stimulation but not the right kind, and he wriggles his sluggish body. Manages to get his hand to his cock, but touching himself just makes it worse. He moans and squeezes hard instead, as tight a fist as he can form like this, until tears spring involuntary to his eyes from the intense stimulation of it. But its not — unpleasant, the pain. Just overwhelming. He can't keep his hips still.

And that's when the door opens again.

"He's ready," says the woman who injected him, not looking particularly surprised or offended to see Martin masturbating on the bed. He realizes belatedly that he should be trying to escape, trying to get away from whatever plans have been made that require him drugged like this. 

And then Peter Lukas walks into the room.

"Hi again," he says, with an amused friendliness, the kind of tone you have when you've unexpectedly run into someone for the second time in ten minutes. "Having fun? Looks like. Well, just wait. Have I got a treat for you."

He picks Martin up like he weighs nothing, even though Martin has always been a big man, no matter how little space he tries to take up. Slings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, pats his bare ass. Martin knows he should fight or struggle or scream but the _sensation_. Peter's big hands, the rough texture of his shirt, even the way the air feels different as they move — as he's carried out of the room. It's all more sensory information than his brain can properly process at once, and he closes his eyes and rides it out, tries not to rut against Peter's shoulder. Fails. There's a tiny wet smear of precum there when he's finally set down into the sling.

The soft material is a thick band across his chest and stomach, like he's lying in a hammock the wrong way around. He isn't fully horizontal, feet still on the ground and head still in the air, but he's off balance and the sling has caught him. It feels lovely on his skin — he moans a little when someone pulls more if around his torso to his back, and laces it in place like a corset, though not so tight he can't breath. Then Peter's winding rope around him, too, and the feel of it is so silken and lovely, like snakes crawling sinuous across his chest and over his shoulders, circling under his arms, around his neck.

He's so caught up in his bondage that it takes him a moment to realize there are other people in the room. He sucks in a sharp breath and opens his eyes, but wishes he hadn't; the world is a riot of colour, too bright and too much. He's suspended in the middle of a large, ornate room that wouldn't look out of place in Buckinham palace, and the patterns on the rug and wallpaper make him dizzy. He shuts his eyes again, whimpers.

Peter grips his shoulder, his hand ice cold but his touch somehow still a little reassuring underneath the distraction. "You're doing well, Martin. Would you like a blindfold?"

"Please," he whispers, eyes squeezed shut. He's anxious that Peter will demand a more coherent answer than begging, but he doesn't and it feels like mercy, even as Martin knows nothing about what is happening to him is merciful.

"Yes, I thought you might." Peter slips something cool and dark over his eyes, and Martin sways further forward with the relief of it — the pressure over the bridge of his nose and his delicate closed eyelids is still a lot, but his whole body is enduring the hyperstimulation of touch and he's learning to endure it, give in to it.

He's starting to feel not just bound but suspended, when Peter wraps rope around his thighs — despite that sense his stomach still jolts in fear when he's given a sudden firm push without warning, and overbalances into freefall. There's a moment of panic, and then the ropes all catch him, firm over his chest, the sling supporting down to his hips, his feet dangling entirely off the ground. The ropes around his thighs go taut suddenly, and his legs are pulled apart, and in the brief clarity of the adrenaline of falling, Martin realizes what he must look like, hanging naked and spread like this, his cock achingly hard.

Humiliation flushes through him, and this time his movement is genuine struggle, a reflexive refusal of what's happening to him, what can't be happening, what is happening, oh god. There are other people in the room. A woman laughs. A woman _laughs_ , as he tries to thrash his soporific limbs against his bindings, as he lifts his hands to try and claw uselessly at the ropes— 

"Now now." Peter's hands catch his, firmly. "Don't embarrass me in front of my family, Martin."

"Please," Martin says again, with a different intonation entirely this time. He can feel his energy for anger starting to drift away again, can feel the scream of sensation and the fog of arousal pressing back in. "Please, anything. Anything you want. Don't—"

"Shh shh shh." One of Peter's hands holds his, and the other is on his face, stroking his cheek. "Don't fight it. You'll make it worse for yourself, and that doesn't actually really interest me. Just go away somewhere and let us take what we need." He brushes some of Martin's curls behind his ear, under the elastic so they don't fall forward and tickle his cheek. "Such a rare and lovely gift. Your untouched body. Nobody has ever even kissed you, have they Martin?"

"Once," says Martin, struggling to remember, to cling to sweet strawberry lipgloss lips on his, like the memory can ward off whatever is happening here. Peter chuckles. "Ah yes. A girl at a party. There's always a kiss at a party, or an adventurous next door neighbor, or a pre-teen sweetheart. They don't matter. What you gave them was just a drop, but we, Martin, we are going to take the whole ocean."

And then his fingers are in Martin's mouth. Just suddenly invasively in there, thick and sailor-calloused, still slightly too chilly, pressing open Martin's jaw and over his tongue, filling his mouth until he gags and spasms in his restraints. But Peter doesn't stop, just turns his wrist and works his fingers to skim the back of Martin's throat, blunt nails suddenly feeling terrifyingly sharp against all that sensitive, delicate tissue. But he's careful, precise, even if he's merciless. Ignores Martin's teeth, his choking, the noises in his chest, the way he dry retches. Just fucks his mouth with four fingers, thumb resting lightly on his cheek.

When he finally pulls his hand out saliva comes with it, thick acrid back of the throat strings, and Martin is messy and salivating, dripping, sobbing, his eyes watering and nose running. Peter pats his damp cheek with the other, dry hand. "Good lad," he says. "Let's have a bit of fun."

Martin should really be expecting the saliva sloppy fingers in his ass, then, but he isn't.

It feels good. Peter isn't rough at all, and his slick fingers rub over Martin's hole, dipping inside, tugging at the rim, awakening every nerve ending at once. And the drug is still in his system, turning up the volume on each touch, so that when Peter finally presses inside him the stretch of his finger makes Martin groan in pleasure. He's only ever had his own hands there before (though he's imagined others, of course he has, maybe even had a fantasy that went a little like this, spread over his work desk with Peter's broad sailor hands fingering him open. But that Peter, his earnestness hadn't been quite so malicious, his touches not as devoid of meaning. That Peter had been kind. Laughable optimism. When has anyone at his fucking workplace _ever_ been kind?)

(Jon, he thinks, remembering— no. Jon can't be here. Martin will not taint his memory by thinking about him while he's raped, even if it would be the easy way out, to relax into the drug and the blindfold and pretend—)

Peter is putting something inside him.

Martin jolts back to awareness of his body. Peter has put something inside him, thin and inflexible. Martin has just enough time to register that it isn't a toy when the water starts.

That gets his first scream. Just a little cold water, filling him up and making his insides spasm in cramp. But it's not the pain, it's the invasive sensation, of being given an enema without warning or consent. It's knowing why they might want to clean him out. It's the indignity of people _watching_ — sex is one thing, given where he works it's not surprising that he's comfortable with a bit of exhibitionism. But this.

So he cries out. The chatter picks up at the sound of it, interested, coming closer maybe — he can't really be sure, all sounds are too grating to him to comprehend. He tries to hold back once Peter withdraws the nozzle, pants with the exertion of keeping in all that liquid, but he can't do it, can feel it trickling down over his balls, little rivulets that drip off the end of his heavy-hanging cock.

Peter rubs a soothing circle at the small of his back. "Just let go," he advises, and Martin doesn't _want_ to, he doesn't, but it hurts and he can't, the sling presses in just the wrong way when Peter pushes down like that and he _can't_ — 

He's not sure what they've got for him, but it's pressed against the inside of his thighs and makes a sound like milk in a bucket when he finally lets go. 

"That's it," says Peter. "Get it all out. Nice and clean."

-

From a distance, Martin is aware that Peter continues to clean him. That he rearranges his limbs; his suspension must be on some kind of pulley system. Checks his extremities for bloodflow — which they have, whatever was in that cake has completely worn off now and he ostensibly has full control of his limbs again. But Martin isn't inhabiting his body right now. It's too much. 

Instead he floats in some distant space, an existence somehow outside of himself, and outside of the world, while still being present in both things. His brain and body trundle along, flesh and synapses, as his consciousness goes elsewhere. He is aware distantly that he's being fingered slickly open, his hole stretched with careful movements, and then stretched some more. It isn't really intended to give him pleasure but it does anyway, and he observes distantly the way his body tips over the edge. 

Coming untouched is painful and unpleasant, not enough of a relief at all, his dick kicking wildly as it splashes everywhere. Martin is weightless and messy as he's made to spill. Nobody seems to acknowledge it. Nobody even cleans him up.

Peter still speaks to him, and Martin, limp, acknowledges each of his sweet words with automatic little sounds, just echoes. But the praise feels as hollow as those empty Lukas eyes, and he doesn't bother arguing when Peter tells him how much Martin is enjoying himself, how lucky he is to have Peter so attentive for his first time. 

The sounds of the room around him strobe in and out, conversations loud enough to eavesdrop sometimes and completely muffled and distant than others. He doesn't bother trying to figure out whether they're moving physically away, or Peter is distancing him from them, or perhaps his own mind is just tuning them out unbidden. Has stopped being embarrassed at the awareness of his audience, though they are occasionally useful for gauging what Peter's doing before he does it. Like now, the sudden ripple of interest throughout the room, people coming closer, has Martin bracing himself.

Peter fists his hair suddenly, not particularly gently. He must be squatting down; Martin can feel his breath suddenly. "Stay very still," he murmurs.

That's when Martin becomes aware of the presence.

He can't see it, of course, still blindfolded. And if it has a physical form, then that form is silent and scentless, does not disturb the air as it passes. Conversations hush, but Martin has some other awareness of it. Some part of him that has read too many statements, that has started to tingle when Jon uses compulsion, that knew immediately that Peter was dangerous. The part of him still singed from burning statements. _It_ looks back at the presence behind him, acknowledges it, interested but impartial. And fear crawls like ice down Martin's spine.

"It needs your consent," says Peter, without elucidating particularly what for. But Martin can feel his stretched-open hole leaking lubricant, and doesn't have to ask.

"What if I don't give it," Martin responds, with a gut-level fierceness, fight instead of flight.

Peter chuckles. "Then it will eat you, and we'll have to find another virgin."

 _That_ strikes home. The idea of the Lukases putting someone else through all this — maybe someone younger, with more ahead of them. Martin's already culpable for other people's deaths. He's useless, fucked up, and doomed. Why shouldn't it be him?

Still, he has to sniff back tears before he can speak.

"I consent, then," he says, trying to sound clear even as his whole body feels clenched and terrified. Abruptly angry: "You hear that? You can _fuck_ me!"

It does. Whatever it is behind him, it does, pressing to his hole something that at first he thinks is the head of a cock, spongey and slipping easily past the well prepared ring of muscle, but doesn't flare to a shaft but immediately starts to taper bigger. And bigger. And deeper. Something slick and thick working its way into his body, and Martin gasps desperately for air and tries to thrash in his restraints as he's filled.

When it stops he's whimpering, trembling. There is no other point of contact, just the snake-like appendage undulating in him, but Peter strokes his hair and kisses his mouth and hushes him. "You're doing so well," he tells Martin, who can feel another scream building behind his teeth.

Then the thing begins to swell.

"Nooo," Martin croons softly, because he can feel it, expanding inside him, and he's never taken a cock before but he knows it's bigger than any human cock could be, feels bigger than could possibly fit in him, the sheets of muscle aching as they stretch. He's started to fear it tearing him, expanding and pressing past what his body could possibly take, and he sobs against Peter's cold hands. 

It throbs, and grows, and doesn't move, and Martin wishes it would, wants it to be anything than the sensation of impalement. But when it does start to move he changes his mind immediately, stomach lurching at the sensation of his ass closing behind it and then being pressed open again. At the feel of his guts being physically dragged with the friction, like this thing might actually prolapse him.

"Oh god," he's moaning, sick and horrified.

"Shh, here," says Peter, and once again shows mercy that isn't really mercy, kindness that could never truly be kindness when all of this is by his design. He presses a familiar sharpness into Martin's neck, and more of the aphrodisiac drug floods his system.

That makes a rubble of his sense of self, and he becomes a mewling whining thing, inhuman in its need to get fucked. He comes and comes, a constant pulsing leak that gradually slows to a drip, and still he thrashes in agony and ecstasy, neurons firing and endorphins flooding as orgasm wracks his body over and over. There is no more Martin Blackwood, just meat and nerves, and a gaping hole in which the monster sheathes itself over and over, over and over, huge and relentless and slow.

-

When Martin registers sensation again, he's empty. The Lukas creature has withdrawn. If it came in him, he honestly can't tell, and can't work up any kind of feeling about it anyway. What's one more violation?

The answer to that comes in the form of a thumb at his jaw and a cock at his lips.

"Open up," says a man — not Peter. Martin does, resentfully apathetic, and his mouth is filled. The owner must be kneeling, because he can feel his toes low enough to brush carpet, even horizontal. 

Someone with a wet cunt straddles his suspended form and is rubbing off on his back. He can't tell if it's the same person who starts to finger his loose hole. Another rough set of hands plays with his soft cock, jerking it this way and that. Someone puts a cock in his hair. Someone else rubs against his foot. The sounds of masturbation are all around him, and the company still exchanges low words amidst their moans and laughter — "Oh darling, that's lovely." — "Shall I suck it for you?" — "His other foot is free, Amelia." — "Look, I can fit my whole hand inside." — "I'd like his mouth when you're done with it."

Martin hangs limp in his bondage as the Lukas family uses him for their pleasure, come raining down on him in soft splatters. They use their mouths, sometimes, grope his flesh and twist his balls and nipples. Occasionally he writhes with pain or pleasure or just the terrible ticklish itch of fingers over the sole of his foot, but he doesn't get hard again, even with the stimulant still highlighting every touch. Someone gets the bright idea to milk his prostate, and then feeds him whatever semen his poor balls manage to produce, laughing. Martin licks it silently out of their hand, compliant.

One by one, the family finishes and takes their leave, and eventually other hands and mouths and cocks and cunts stop replacing them, until the last man, older by the sounds of his wheezing grunts, shoots two ropes of thick come over Martin's waiting tongue and leaves him in silence.

-

It's hard to say how much time passes. Martin isn't sure he's even conscious for all of it. Eventually all the come that's going to drip from his body has done so. He gets cold, as the drugs and adrenaline leave his system, and he can feel his fingers going numb from being hung downwards for so long. He lifts them, tries to rub feeling back into them, and then realizing he has a greater range of motion than he really thought, takes his blindfold off.

Peter Lukas is sitting in front of him in a high-backed plush armchair, drinking a glass of what looks like brandy. It's startling to see him, close enough Martin could touch him if he swung forward a little, and completely, supernaturally silent. 

At least until he smiles and speaks. "Well! What a birthday, eh? Ready to get down?"

Martin blinks at him. 

Peter puts down his drink and stands — he's still fully dressed. Wipes some semen from Martin's forehead before it can roll down to his eye and flicks it away. Then does something with the ropes that finishes lowering Martin to the floor — the carpet is disgustingly damp but it's so good to not be in suspension that Martin doesn't care. Peter kneels next to him, undoing all the knots of his bondage, unlacing him rope by rope. Martin pushes his face into his own bicep, wishing he didn't exist. He doesn't cry. He's past tears.

"Congratulations on surviving your very first ritual," Peter says breezily. Martin idly imagines pulling out his pretty teeth. "Family got a bit rowdy at the end there, yeah? Bacchanal worship, you know how it is — well, all right, you don't. Elias doesn't approve of that sort of stuff, which doesn't make much sense to me — his god is the most voyeuristic of them all. But he's always been a bit protective of you lot in the Archives."

He finishes freeing Martin and just picks him up, slinging him over a shoulder with the same careless strength as when he brought him out here in the first place. If that was even the same person, as the person Martin is now.

"Bath first, I think," he says. Martin looks dully at the mess they're leaving behind them, the undone construction in the middle of this opulent room. The deep rents in the rug where something inhuman had planted its feet to fuck him. He wonders what the servants will think when they clean it up. Peter is talking about baths. Martin isn't really listening. He thinks about the possibility of slipping under the water and breathing in.

Perhaps sensing this, Peter doesn't leave him alone to bathe. He rolls up his sleeves and sits on the edge of the tub, sponges him clean. Washes his hair, hands gentle with the wet curls. Has a servant bring a mug of something hot and alcoholic, and a plate of small things he can feed Martin by hand: grapes, berries, chunks of soft brie, squares of chocolate. Puts them directly into Martin's mouth, leaves his fingers at his lips until Martin dutifully chews and swallows. He's obedient right up until he tastes the alcohol in the hot chocolate, and then he unceremoniously spits his agreeable mouthful into the bathwater.

"All right," says Peter, apparently amused by this reaction, and gets him a bottle of cool water instead.

Something about the water, more than anything else, gets to him. It's cool and clean and refreshing in his mouth, and he drinks half a bottle thirstily, and then as if that somehow replenished his tears, he starts to softly weep.

"Aw, c'mon now, don't cry," Peter says. "You gave something up, yeah, but there's still plenty of you left." He pets Martin's wet hair. He probably thinks he's being kind. 

Martin feels a flare of anger, and he tries to grab at it, hold onto it, but it seems to dissipate into the soapy bathwater before he can. Even his tears are starting to seem rote and pointless, so he stops crying, too, lets Peter wipe them away. 

"There, that's it," he says, as if his words made any difference at all. "Come on, out we get." He wraps Martin in a soft towel as the water spirals down the drain. "I'll lend you some pajamas. We can sleep in my old bedroom, drive back in the morning. Maybe even do some sightseeing. It's your holiday after all."

Martin doesn't bother wondering what time it is. The nothing of sleep sounds like a dangerously welcome reprieve. He imagines pushing a pin into Peter's eye and watching it deflate. He imagines strangling him in the night. He imagines going down on him, all soft coaxing kisses, and then biting his fucking cock off. "All right," he says, flat. Then, reflexively polite: Thank you."

"No problem at all," Peter responds earnestly. "My pleasure, really."


End file.
